


the weight of inheritance

by slyther_ing



Series: pathways to you [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First Dates, Humor, Lawyers, Light Angst, M/M, Soulmate AU, background Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood - Freeform, soulmate thread au, terence is snarky and bitchy and kinda a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-05-18 15:30:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19337371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slyther_ing/pseuds/slyther_ing
Summary: In Terence’s mind’s eye, Adrian Pucey has remained static since the first time he saw the boy - tiny amidst the sea of other tiny first years, brown hair matted to his forehead from the lake water, and grinning - ear to ear and eager as they come - up at the Sorting Hat.He’d brushed the boy off on instinct, without a second thought, and now he’s sure karma is biting him in the ass.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the hucey soulmate au that's been long overdue. 
> 
> Can generally be read as a stand-alone, but would recommend reading at least "interlude" to get the bearings of this universe!

In Terence’s mind’s eye, Adrian Pucey has remained static since the first time he saw the boy - tiny amidst the sea of other tiny first years, brown hair matted to his forehead from the lake water, and grinning - ear to ear and eager as they come - up at the Sorting Hat.

He’d brushed the boy off on instinct, without a second thought, and now he’s sure karma is biting him in the ass.

Pucey is leaning against the wall of the club, casual and long-legged, suddenly the exact type of tall-drink-of-water that Terence can’t resist messing with. And there, as bright and earnest as Pucey had been when he’d tried out for the Slytherin quidditch team back in the day, is their soulmate thread. 

It stretches and weaves between the throngs of dancing bar-goers and Terence’s throat dries. 

Pucey obviously knows he’s here - their thread is thin and lacking, but Terence can still feel the tug at his wrist, the Fates no doubt heaving a sigh of relief that they’re finally in each other’s general vicinity. 

He’d been running. He’d been running for so long. 

Pucey peels himself off the wall and walks, with direct purpose, up to Terence and plants himself neatly in front of him, arms crossed behind his back. Far too formal for the club, Terence thinks as he observes the dress shoes and the crisp shirt, but it works on Pucey. 

It  _ is _ difficult for anything  _ not _ to work on someone who’s as well proportioned as Adrian. And like that, the image of Pucey that Terence has kept in his chest in order to fend off the growing need to return, the eager little puppy-dog kid, disappears in a flash of Adrian’s white smile. 

“You got hot,” Terence says before Pucey can say anything.

Adrian cocks his head, smiles bashfully, and Terence inhales, sharply.

***

Terence has never learned how to take no for an answer, has always been too pretty not to get his way, so when Marcus dismisses him at the Floo, he sends owl after owl until Flint grumbles and gives up. 

They're sitting at a bar too grimy for Terence’s taste, but Marcus had persuaded him with the grim promise that Pucey wouldn't turn up at this bar in particular. When Terence had pushed for why, Marcus had choked on a cough and mumbled something about vomit and suede shoes. 

“Help me,” Terence says, and while Flint mulls his request over, he flashes a contemptuous look at his old housemate and begrudging ally.

“You've gotten fat,” Terence sniffs. It's a lie, because Marcus’ biceps are still three times the size of his own and could probably crush a watermelon, but Terence is feeling tetchy and bitter.

Marcus snorts, finishing a long swig from his ale and looking fairly unbothered, “Desk job, Higgs. It’s not the same as quidditch seven days a week.”

“Yes, well.” 

“Well.” Marcus acknowledges, before changing the subject. “You’re beyond my help.”

“Look, I don’t want anything to do with him - long-term. Nothing like that,” Terence mulls over the idea of hooking up and soulmates, before pushing that aside as truly despicable, even for him. “But it’s clear that’s what he wants, so can you get him off my back?”

Flint’s glare turns harder. “Thought you said he got ‘hot’?”

“I’m not a human trash can, Marcus.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Marcus gripes, before taking another long drink. “He’s a good kid, Higgs, and I think you’re being plain dumb.”

Terence traces the drips of condensation on his glass. “I don’t do commitment and you know that.” 

“Didn’t think I was cut out for it either.”

Terence laughs bitterly. “Stop playing, Flint, you were  _ made _ to do what you’re doing. Look at you, playing the good house-husband.” 

Marcus doesn’t deter at Terence’s admittedly weak insults. “What I mean is, you can’t keep running from your soulmate. You’re not going to be happy, Higgs. Look at our parents.” 

“That’s yours. Mine are soulmates and they’re unhappy, so how do you explain that?”

Flint rolls his eyes. “Considering that your father knows fidelity like a Puff knows how to be assertive, I’d say that’s an anomaly.”

Terence can’t even bristle in indignation, too familiar with his mother’s gin and tonics when his father is late from work. Reeking of perfume and rumpled shirts. He shoves it to the back of his mind. 

He orders a side of chips while Marcus keeps on his impression of a bored rock. 

“You shouldn’t be eating that,” Terence needles Marcus when he grabs a few chips from the platter set in front of them.

“I could throw you across the room and not break a sweat,” Marcus says, and plops large globs of ketchup all over the rest of Terence’s order.

Terence hates ketchup; Marcus knows that very well. 

“You should talk to him,” Marcus says, watching Terence fail miserably at figuring out a charm that’ll take away the offending condiment yet keep the chips intact. “Get to know him.”

“I do know him.”

“You know who you  _ think _ he is,” Marcus rolls his eyes, arms crossed once again. Terence is sure he’s going to die that way - arms folded, brows furrowed, and glaring at some poor bloke who’d probably said something insulting about little league quidditch. “When was the last time you talked to him?”

“I dunno, when I told him it was never going to happen at graduation?”

Marcus’ angry eyebrows return, but they stopped having an effect on Terence ages ago. He knows Marcus is disapproving of the whole thing, because while he had his own soulmate debacle, Terence is pretty sure that Flint had spent the whole time wallowing in guilt and angst over Oliver Wood. Terence’s nonchalance rubs him the wrong way.

On cue, Flint mutters under his breath something about “rude” and “devil’s spawn”.

“Anyways, what’s the point of talking to him? I  _ told _ you, I’m not about to settle down with my soulmate. Since when did you get so set in your ‘one true love’ mindset? We used to be on the same page.”

Flint pinches the bridge of his nose with his forefingers, same gesture as when he would be halfway through describing a play and Montague would inevitably snort awake. “Alright look - if you don’t want him, but don’t want to stay away - and don’t give me that bullshit, I  _ know _ you - what do you propose you do?”

“That’s why I’m here!”

“I can’t give you all the answers,” Marcus grunts, pushing his empty glass towards the barkeeper, “Half the time I’m still trying to figure out how to be a good soulmate to Oliver, okay? Vice versa. Nobody has it figured out.”

Terence doesn’t like that - he wants an easy solution. That’s all he ever wants, something simple and neat that he can pick up and put down at his own whim. He doesn’t do messy relationships. It’s flirt, fuck, and leave, and that’s that. 

“You should talk to him,” Marcus says quietly, “He’s a good kid. He deserves to know where you’re at, and it’d probably make you feel better if you know where he’s at.”

“Fine. Can you -”

“Not through me,” Marcus growls, and Terence eats a ketchup-covered chip to appease him. 

***

“Was it worth it?” Terence asks when they part on a street corner. The moon overhead hangs high and quiet, compelling him to ask something uncynical for a singular moment.

It’s dark now, so he can’t appraise the look Marcus casts his way, eyes shadowed. Flint puts his hands in his pockets, and shrugs. 

“Was for me.” 

They depart from one another with a nod, an acknowledgment that’s been hard won over seven years in school, and Terence watches the retreating figure before turning to head back to his flat. Flint’s at peace, the aftermath of the war leaving him relatively unscathed, and shacking up in his domestic life is clearly what he wants. Terence imagines that scenario, fills in a man with a blank face in place of what the world thinks should be Adrian Pucey, and feels the nauseating claustrophobia creep up his throat. 

***

_ Hello Pucey,  _

_ I can’t say it wasn’t a big surprise seeing you the other day. I can’t say it was completely unwelcome, either _

_ Let’s get this straight - I’m not here for anything personal. I’m back in England to do my job, earn loads of money, and spend it on lavish, shiny things. It’s purely material, you understand? _

_ But as it is, I believe we should discuss the nature of our relations to one another. Your red thread is my red thread, and you and I should probably figure out what that’s going to mean moving forward. I’m getting old. _

_ Anyways, I’ll be at The Black Cauldron tonight, 8pm. _

_ Higgs _

_ Farley & Higgs Law Practices _

 

“So what do you think?”

The new firm intern, some freshly graduated witch named Romilda Vane, looks up from his letter and pulls an unimpressed face. “You’re rather rude.”

Terence waggles his fingers from his desk. “You’ll learn, honey. No spelling errors? No ink splotches?”

Romilda shakes her head.

“Great, then I can send it out.”

“I don’t think so,” Gemma Farley says, setting a stack of files in front of Terence’s nose. “You’re not allowed to use the company owls for personal purposes. Nor the company letterhead.”

“This is my father’s law firm,” Terence says sweetly.

“Same,” Gemma says, grin twice as wide and voice just as sweet. “And I’m your superior, so why don’t you start filing these away in the appropriate cases. Romilda, let’s go grab lunch.”

Vane stops filing her nails and jumps at the opportunity, sun shining alluringly outside of their third-story office. Terence grimaces at the stacks of paperwork to flip through - he’s good at this, good at picking apart alibis and excuses and coming up with airtight arguments. That’s what being in Slytherin had trained him to do, and he’d been as good as they come. 

He doesn’t like it - this is a launching platform, straight into the Wizengamot and the Wizengamot means ugly robes and the same day lived over and over again. After years of traveling and bouncing from one city to the next, Terence knows it’ll be stifling. And yet that’s his family legacy, and that’s what they’ve all been brought out into the world for, right?

So. He should stay within the lines at Farley & Higgs. 

The firm owl hoots reproachfully at Terence in his cage. 

Well. Terence may be good at debating, but following rules was never in his repertoire. 

Just to piss off Gemma further - she’d been a year younger than him at Hogwarts, and his father had founded the firm  _ first _ , so how dare she tell him what to do - he melts her lipstick down to seal his letter to Pucey. 

He spends the rest of the work day awaiting Pucey’s reply, but the company owl returns empty-talonned. Pucey had gotten his letter then; and it’s very unlike the polite, charming Adrian Pucey to keep whoever he’s corresponding with waiting. Not that he would know - it’s just what all his former teammates say.

Terence writes, and files, and reads, but nothing comes, and when four o’clock swings around, he pulls on his robes with a flourish, looks at Vane, Farley, and the third member of the firm, little Tracey Davis, all strictly not paying attention to him.

“I'm heading out.” He declares.

“See you tomorrow,” Tracey says monotonously, because tomorrow is Friday, and everyone hates working Fridays. 

“See you tomorrow,” Terence responds, even though he has no intention of coming into the office at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rolls in a month later w three iced coffees and no sleep: terence is a MENACE

The Black Cauldron lives up to its name - lowly lit and increasingly lascivious as the night continues and more and more bodies file into the establishment. It’s not a place Terence would imagine Pucey feeling comfortable in, which is precisely why he chose it. The club caught him off guard - now it’s his turn to flip the playing field.

He makes his way over to the bar, takes the seat of honor right by the bartender, starts tapping his fingers against the counter. It’s an art, coming off as both approachable yet casually aloof. Terence picks at his fingernails, ready to reclaim the upper hand in this game of cat and mouse between he and Pucey. 

The thing is, nothing goes completely to plan. 

Pucey turns up neatly at 8:10, and Terence is ticked because he’s not one to be kept waiting. He’d already had half a mind to take his drink and leave - maybe with the bartender, who’d been flirting with him, but then he’d have had to wait until closing and Terence wasn’t about to do  _ that _ \- so when Pucey walks up to him, crisply dressed as always, Terence doesn’t smile. 

It’s hard not to, though, because Pucey is grinning boyishly and looking very incredibly handsome. Terence puts down his moscow mule, as a safety measure.

“Hi Terence,” Pucey says, voice pleasantly deep. Terence hates the effect it has on him, a kind of skin-deep rustle of contentment. It’s comfortable; a little too familiar.

“Pucey.”

Adrian doesn’t deflate like Terence wants him to, and Terence is once again struck by how annoyingly uncaring Pucey is of other people’s treatment of him. 

“I was surprised by your owl.” Adrian smiles, easy and charming in the way he appraises Terence’s carefully picked outfit. “Glad to get it, though.”

“And yet you didn't respond.” Terence sniffs. 

Adrian shrugs. “You laid it out pretty straightforwardly, so.” 

He slides onto the seat besides Terence, shrugging of his coat and folding it neatly over his arm. The bartender asks for his order and Adrian asks for a whiskey, neat. A far cry from the fourteen year old who got tipsy off of a couple of butterbeers. 

“So,” Adrian says once his drink is placed in front of him, “I suppose we should talk business.”

“Or pleasure.” Terence smiles sweetly.

It doesn’t get either of the reactions Terence wants out of Pucey. A wry smile paints its way across Pucey’s face, and he takes a slow sip of his drink before placing it back down on the table again. 

“How long are you back for?” Adrian asks, jumping right to the point.

“As long as I need to be,” Terence says, because he’s not about to give away his life’s ambitions. A small part of him is almost ashamed at how  _ unambitious _ his race up to the top is. Of course a Higgs wants a Wizengamot seat. None of his old schoolmates would be surprised. 

“I heard you’re going into law?”

“For the time being,” Terence responds, and diverts the conversation back to Adrian. “What do you do for work, anyways?”

“I write,” Pucey says plainly, “Travel books, experience articles, the like. There’s not much magic to it, but I enjoy the lifestyle.”

“For the Prophet?”

Adrian laughs. “When they want me to. It’s usually buried in the back pages, you know. They’re still all about rumors and drama.”

He rearranges the collar of his shirt, and Terence’s eyes are immediately drawn to the cut of Pucey’s jaw line, the slight stubble, the peek of smooth skin at his neck. He wants to lick it, to be honest. But Terence rarely lets other people catch him being honest, and that would give Pucey far too high of an upper hand.

“Gemma told me you were working for her firm.”

Terence chokes on his drink. Pucey knew Farley? So he  _ had  _ been asking about Terence.

“Technically, my father founded the firm first.” Terence sniffs, but it brings a smile to Pucey’s lips. “And I’m working  _ with  _ her.”

Adrian doesn’t reply, merely giving the Black Cauldron a once-over - Terence is sure it’s more for his benefit, because Pucey has never been the type to go into any situation unprepared. He bristles at the unconcerned manner, how utterly unfazed his soulmate is at the couples grinding and engaging in quite public displays of - well, affection, is how people would finish the term but it falls a little short of the reality. 

“Alright, Terence,” Adrian says, carefully steepling his fingers together over his drinks now that he’s finished his appraisal of his surroundings, “Seeing as you’re back for an indefinite period of time, what do you have in mind for this?”

He gestures to the red thread between them, swaying slightly with every movement of his hand. Terence plays thoughtful, plays invested for a minute. He doesn’t have a plan, to be honest. If  _ continuing to avoid each other and sleeping with other people _ were to be considered a socially acceptable plan, he would tell Pucey point blank. 

As it is.

“I, personally, am intrigued,” Terence says slowly in as cool and composed a manner that he can pull off, “But my point from earlier still stands.”

“Earlier,” Adrian smiles wryly, “You mean when you blew me off at your graduation?”

Terence doesn’t say anything, just drinks his drink and shrugs. They sit in relative silence for a good ten minutes; Adrian is watching him but Terence is unwilling to play his hand. They make remarks on the surrounding chaos, a non committal hum here and there. Adrian makes small talk with the bartender as Terence stares moodily at the bottom of his glass. 

It’s a cold war standoff in which Adrian is sunny and smiling and clearly still enjoying the fact that the cards on the table are all in his favor. 

“Fine,” Terence breaks, after Pucey sighs for the fifth time. “Fine, let’s just. Let’s just get to  _ know one another _ while we’re in the same city _. _ ” 

He rolls his eyes for good measure. Terence is blasé, and casual, and totally, completely unbothered by this whole ordeal. He is. Truly.

Pucey laughs. “Is that what Flint told you to say?”

“No,” Terence sneers, even though it’s a hundred percent true.

Pucey puts up his hands placatingly. “How about this? We spend some time catching up. It’s been a while. And as for the thread - well.”

Pucey’s smirk is disarming. “I know how you feel about it. If that doesn’t change by - let’s say, within the month, then you can tell me to go away and I’ll never bother you about it again.”

“A month?” Terence raises his eyebrows, scoffs. “You think you can get me to catch feelings within a month? Pucey, it’s already the tenth of August.”

Pucey shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m rather charming.”

It’s almost a challenge. It’s almost a gauntlet thrown down and Terence need only last until September before he never has to worry about soulmate threads and commitment and white picket fences ever again. It’s almost too good to be true. At worst, they never speak to one another afterwards. At best, he gets Adrian Pucey, handsome and fit, into his bed.

Terence has always liked a challenge. He’s got nothing to lose; that all rests on Pucey’s plate. 

“Alright, then,” Terence laughs, high and clear above the din, “Do your worst.”

***

They agree to meet on Saturday; enough time for Terence to get his head straight and improve his self-control in not getting distracted by Adrian’s good looks. It’s unfortunate, he curses as he tosses his clothes from one side of the couch to the other, that he’s a shallow creature and that Adrian is so easily charming. 

It’s also infuriating that Pucey continues having the upper hand. He tells Marcus as much over a Floo call in the late afternoon on Friday, lamenting and languishing on a pillow as he recounts their meetup at the Black Cauldron.

“He’s so sure of himself,” Terence says disgustedly, rubbing the purring kitten in his arms behind the ears. “I hate it. It’s only a month but Merlin, if every time I meet with him stresses me out to this degree, I’ll have aged ten years by the end of it.”

“Higgs, I have a meeting in an hour that I haven’t prepared for,” Marcus grumbles. He’s said the same thing for the past half hour - Terence doesn’t truly believe Marcus cares that much about this meeting or else he would’ve closed the Floo call ages ago.

“Skip it.”

“Like you’re skipping work?”

“Exactly,” Terence says, “And the  _ gall _ of him to not respond to my letter!”

“Maybe he has better things to do,” Flint says, “ _ Like I do. _ Some of us prefer to work for our living and can’t be gossiping all day.”

Terence rolls his eyes, though Marcus isn’t watching him. “He’s taking me out to brunch on Saturday, Flint.  _ Brunch _ . In broad daylight. With mimosas and eggs benedict and drunk witches all around us.”

“Brunch can be cozy,” Flint mutters distractedly, nose down in some parchment, “Where are you two going?”

“Some place called Little Finch. As if I want to think about birds when I’m eating-”

“Little Finch?” Marcus interrupts, suddenly looking very intrigued. 

“Yeah,” Terence replies, “What about it?”

Flint doesn’t answer, instead just shrugs and returns to his paperwork. Terence narrows his eyes - Flint has never been a very good liar and Terence is a very good sniffer out of the truth.  

“What are you keeping from me?”

“Nothing, nothing. Oliver likes that place. Good pancakes.” Flint says dismissively, “Hard to get reservations.”

“He said he knows someone,” Terence says, eyes still squinted at where Flint’s big head is bent over his papers. “Whatever it is you’re not telling me, I’ll figure out for myself, you know.”

Marcus laughs, a quick burst of sound that’s half mocking, half exasperated. “No doubt.”

Terence doesn’t go into work, regardless of Farley’s coolly written command. There are barely any cases on their plate right now at the firm - they can survive without him. Instead, he takes the remaining free time before meeting with Adrian to make sure he’s at the top of his game.

It takes Terence a good hour to put together an outfit he deems acceptable for brunch. Everyone touts beauty as only being skin-deep, that looks fade. Terence is of the opinion that unless he’s beautiful, nobody gives anyone the time of day. Looks don’t fade - power based on looks does. At some point, you have to transfer the thrall you have over people based on being pretty to something else, but for now Terence feels certain on capitalizing on it. 

“What’s intimidating, Vermouth?” Terence directs to his kitten, sitting by his feet as he flips through his wardrobe. “But also appropriate for brunch?”

Vermouth yawns, flashing tiny kitten teeth. 

When he shows up at Little Finch on Saturday morning, it’s following a half hour in front of the mirror arranging the collar of the shirt he’d settled on, another twenty minutes fixing his hair, and the final ten calming himself down from throwing a fit. 

Pucey’s sitting by the window as Terence walks up; he waves, smiles. The thread around Terence’s wrist tightens and sends shivers up his arms - as if pleased and happy that this proximity is starting to become a regular occurence. Something deep in the pit of Terence’s stomach turns over, an anxiety he refuses to think about any longer than necessary. 

“You look good today,” is the first thing Adrian says to him when he sits down.

“Don’t I look good all the time?” Terence shoots back.

Adrian tilts his head, meets Terence’s eyes over the menu, and says, “Sure” so nonchalantly Terence can’t help but back down.  

There’s an easy grace between them that Terence knows he doesn’t deserve; he’d spent the length of their overlapping Hogwarts careers avoiding, teasing, prodding at Adrian’s affection for him. It’d been a fleeting annoyance the first couple of years. A slight buzzing gnat, flitting around for his attention - Pucey and his puppy-dog eyes trailing after the quidditch team, until he became part of it, until he became embedded because Flint had a soft spot and the rest of his mates had a penchant for riling Terence up. 

Terence preoccupies himself with cutting their pancakes into even sections, a meticulous act that lets him avoid Adrian’s eyes. No matter that Adrian is asking him benign questions about work on Friday, the weather, how his morning has been so far - Terence gives short, terse responses that cause their soulmate thread to bristle with indignation. It’s amusing, though, because from Adrian’s end, all Terence can feel is a quasi-bemusement - meaning, then, that the indignation is his own. 

He’s not quite sure why he’s feeling so uncomfortable - by all means, he should be in this just to draw the month out, but something feels off. Like he’s unsure what type of persona to portray, how to worm his way through this situation like he can any other. 

“Have you kept up with the old quidditch team?”

“Not really,” Terence says haltingly, “Not past the occasional run in at the bar. Why, have you?”

Adrian shrugs. “I assumed you might have. Sorry.”

“Like I’d keep in touch with those assholes who sold me out for new brooms.” Terence sniffs - there’s no real heat behind it, but he’s always one for a grudge. 

“They  _ were _ nice brooms, though,” Adrian jokes. 

Terence glares. Adrian puts his hands up in appeasement.

“Do you?” Terence asks, popping a bite of banana into his mouth. “Keep up with those lugs?”

“Here and there. Flint and Warrington, more so than the others, but I’ll probably see Montague a fair amount now that he’s moved into the city.”

“What’s he doing in the city? Thought he was a country boy, through and through.”

Adrian shrugs. “Love makes you do crazy things.”

“Montague? Graham Montague, in love?” Terence asks in disbelief.

“Yeah - the thread. Met some witch while he was in France on vacation, and finally saw it and they hit it off brilliantly. Marietta, I believe.” Adrian wipes syrup off his finger neatly. “They settled down right quick.”

“Oh.” Terence can’t form words. He’s almost a little indignant that Graham Montague, of all people, has fallen in love and  _ settled down _ . With a small downtown and probably a cute, fluffy dog. Montague had never been the type, nor expressed any interest in discovering who was at the other end of his thread and yet he’d fallen into the inevitable after all. It’s as if Terence has lost a comrade in arms.

“They’re cute.” Adrian shrugs again. 

Before Terence can comment on how nothing related to Montague could possibly be considered  _ cute _ , they’re interrupted by someone coming to a stop by their table. He doesn’t pay it mind at first, except then he realizes that Adrian and the waiter are looking at each other with long-standing recognition.

“Adrian,” the waiter says warmly. “It’s good to see you.”

Adrian grins. “Hey Will, it’s been a while.”

The waiter - shorter than Adrian and Terence both, dark curly brown hair, a smile that crinkles his eyes up - sets down a basket of pastries. “Snuck this for you.”

“Aw, you didn’t have to-” Adrian tries to refuse the basket, but the waiter, who Terence refuses to make a note of the name of because he’s  _ not _ going to look him up after this, thank you very much, shakes his head.

“It’s nothing, really. On me.”

Adrian catches Terence’s eye, shrugs in a  _ what-can-you-do _ manner that Terence takes for  _ what-can-you-do _ - _ when-you’re-so-universally-well-liked _ , and accepts the complimentary pastries. Terence grabs a croissant and tears into it savagely, making crumbs fall over the table. He gets a kind of satisfaction in feeling the butter oil up his fingers, a welcome distraction to the glowing smile Adrian sends back up at the waiter. 

“How’s the novel coming along?”

“The inspiration comes and goes,” Will the Waiter says, “But it’s making progress. Would you want to read it over some time? I could use a sharp eye.”

Adrian agrees, amicable and charming, and they chit-chat for a couple more minutes before Will the Waiter is called away to another table.

“So,” Terence says nonchalantly. “Who was that?”

“My ex boyfriend,” Adrian responds, as if Terence is supposed to be as breezy about this as Pucey is being. He’s barely jealous - just confused about how exactly he ended up in a situation where he’s taking this meeting seriously.

“Are you on such good terms with all of your exes?” Terence asks, more intrigued than anything else. All of his relationships, if they could be called relationships, have ended in explosive fights or ignoring each other at Ministry galas and Christmas parties. The amount of times he’s pulled Flint or Bletchley away into random rooms to avoid someone is too many to count. 

“Most of them,” Adrian says nonchalantly, and Terence reels at the fact that Pucey has had more than one past relationship, “Besides the one truly bad breakup. It’s a small world. I try to remain on good terms, you know?”

“Of course,” Terence says, even though he doesn’t.

They finish their meal and before Terence can come up with an excuse as to why he can’t hang around for longer, Pucey says, “I’m sorry for running off immediately, but I’ve got to meet my editor. I’ll owl you?”

And all Terence can say is, “Right.” Half relieved, half peeved.

Pucey says goodbye at the end of the street, but not before kissing Terence lightly on the cheek. It’s a friendly gesture, sure - if they were anyone else, any _ where _ else, Terence wouldn’t think twice. But it’s Pucey, and it’s them, and so Terence becomes hyper aware of the soft brush of Adrian’s lips against his cheek, the sharp, fresh scent of cologne, and the firm hand Pucey places on Terence’s bicep to steady himself. He thinks about it as he watches Adrian disapparate, sharp crack resounding through the air.

The soulmate thread tickles around his wrist and Terence grimaces, tight lipped. A deep unsettling feeling is growing in his chest. Terence shakes the hand with the thread irritably.

 It could be worth owling Montague, for old time’s sake. 

**Author's Note:**

> hucey finally getting the time to shine? yes. yes. 
> 
> unsure how soon the next update will be as general life and work is underway, but ready to get this story written!!


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